


What Happened to That Child

by AZ-5 (elim_garak)



Category: Homeland
Genre: Aftermath of major character's death, Angst, Canon Compliant, Memories, Multi, Regret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 22:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20015794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/pseuds/AZ-5
Summary: You’re left wondering—Will he ever forgive you? For robbing him of a father; ten years ago and every day since?Will he ever forgive either of you? For thrusting your choices upon him?Will you ever forgive yourself? For fooling yourself, all these years; for thinking you had enough time?Was there really no other choice?All these years?Or was every day a choice in itself?A choice to do nothing?





	What Happened to That Child

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NikitaSunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikitaSunshine/gifts), [hidingupatreeorsomething](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidingupatreeorsomething/gifts), [Murmures1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murmures1234/gifts), [Gnomecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnomecat/gifts).



> Been going through my many files today. And realized that this story has been sitting there, nearly completed, for some time now. Figured I'd throw it out there, see if there's still someone lurking around here who'd be interested in exploring some of these painful topics with me. This one is a bit dark at the beginning, but I promise that it has a hopeful ending. For those of you familiar with Dear John, this story, also canon compliant, can be viewed as its prequel.

**Then**

“Mom?”

She doesn’t hear him at first. The store is busy this time of day, they’re way behind, and there are still a few things to pick up before taking their place in one of the ridiculously long checkout lines. 

From the looks of it, she’s going to have to call in late for her graveyard shift. Again. So, she’s pushing the cart loaded with groceries - and one very serious three year old boy - through the aisles as fast as she can, eyes darting from shelf to shelf in search of the next item on the crumpled list she has wedged between her right thumb and the cart handle.

“Mooooom,” he insists, pulling on her sleeve this time.

Dropping the mega box of Fruit Loops in the cart, she reaches to tousle the soft tuft of his dark hair. “I know, honey. I know. Almost done.”

Of course, Johnny is not really worried about the time table. All he really wanted was her attention.

“Yar’s not Aladar’s daddy…” _Not_ a question. Yet . With Johnny, it almost never is. All of his questions start with a well thought- out statement followed by a brief period of consideration before he finally passes it over to her: “Right?” _Now_ it’s a question.

“Uhm…” Quickly finding the context in the world of a three-year-old is a skill she’s yet to master. _Yar, Aladar… right - Disney's Dinosaur._ “Well, no, honey. Aladar is a dinosaur. And Yar’s a lemur, right? He can’t be his daddy.”

“Why not?”

Good question. Bad timing. 

“Oh Gosh… why not?” Grabbing a carton of milk, “Becaaaause…” It takes a second. “...mommies and daddies and their babies have to be of the same kind.”

He considers it, flipping through his Dinosaur cards. “Then where _is_ Aladar’s daddy?”

It dawns on her then. Too late, but she’s starting to see where this is going. He’s been getting more and more curious lately. She’s addressed her growing concerns with his preschool teacher only to have them confirmed: there’s no way around it - her baby boy is approaching the age when most children begin to wonder about their family structure; and, ready or not, she’ll just have to face it. 

She’s still trying to process it all when his train of thought barges into its next station. 

“Jack’s our kind. People. Right?”

Jack, her current sort-of-boyfriend. _Definitely_ people. Their kind? Jury's still out. “Yes, Johnny. Jack is our kind.”

“But he’s _not_ my daddy…” _Not_ a question. Thinking, cogs turning, gears grinding. Then, finally lifting two incredibly bright, glacier-blue eyes to her face: “Right?”

 _Now_ it's a question. 

And _man_ is she fucked. 

There’ll be no graveyard shift tonight. She stops the cart and, fishing out her phone, dials Lenny - another rook from the precinct - to call in the final favor she’s owed. Not bothering with the groceries, she leaves the full cart on the side of the aisle, and, scooping up Johnny, marches outside. 

She doesn’t stop until they’re in the park next to their apartment building, at their bench, the one where she sits while watching him play - their favorite place in the whole world. For a while, they just stay: Johnny - snuggled into her in what she jokingly calls a “full-body-cuddle lockdown”, Julia - clutching him to her, arms locked, savoring the surplus warmth of the departing afternoon sun.

“That’s right, Johnny,” she whispers finally. “Jack is not your daddy.”

 _Here it comes._ _All hands brace for impact._

 _Three… two… one…_ “Where’s my daddy?”

_Now, THAT’S a question._

***********

**Now**

Things were so much simpler back then. 

Of course, _back then_ she didn't know that. _Back then_ it was a big question, one she’d been dreading since the day they agreed he had to go. 

It seems so mundane now. So sorely unimportant. 

Maybe, it’s because when you’re a first-time single mother trying to juggle shift work, a baby, and a two-year degree in Criminal Justice, every little bump on the road feels like an earthquake.

Maybe, it’s because hindsight really _is_ 20/20. 

Or maybe - just maybe - it’s true what they say about death…

...it puts everything in perspective.

People don’t die on our terms. We don’t get a warning that time is about to run out; both _their_ time and the time that we thought we had to make things right. 

There’s no magic, no karmic justice, no serendipitous twist of events. There’s no last minute realization; no closure. Because life’s not a Hollywood movie. Most people don’t get a chance to say goodbye, ask for forgiveness, or confess their undying love. They’re just gone, reduced to a _read-only_ file, and you’re left with a bunch of undotted “i”s and uncrossed “t”s.

You’re left angry. At him. At yourself. At the world. Because when you can’t lay the blame on just one person, when something appears to be nobody’s fault, it feels like it is everybody’s.

You’re left sad. Empty, barren, bleeding. As if a part that’s been always just yours - secret, hidden, cherished - has been ripped out. And now in its place is a gaping wound; and everybody can see.

You’re left wondering—

Will he ever forgive you? For robbing him of a father; ten years ago and every day since?

Will he ever forgive either of you? For thrusting your choices upon him? 

Will you ever forgive yourself? For fooling yourself, all these years; for thinking you had enough time?

Was there really no other choice? 

All these years? 

Or was every day a choice in itself? 

A choice to do nothing?

**Author's Note:**

> To NS-  
> Without you, none of it would ever be possible. I owe you. For all times. 
> 
> To hiding-  
> Time to clean the hard-drive. Wink-wink! (Don't worry, The Promise will follow suit - and that's a promise *I'm bad at this*)
> 
> To Murmures-  
> You're missed. Hope this budges you to life, girl!
> 
> To GC-  
> Whazzup girl? Missed you!


End file.
